The Pasture

It’s nearly the dawn of my day; midnight by the mortal’s reckoning. I sit quietly in the midst of my domain… some call it “my mom’s basement,” but they will eat those words someday, mark MY words. What exactly you’re supposed to mark them with, I neither know nor care. Maybe a sharpie. Or maybe one of those trio highlighters… you know, the scented kind… the kind that seems to say to kids “here, get used to sniffing markers, it’s okay.” In fact, I retract my thoughts on the matter. Mark my words with a highlighter, they’ll be more noticeable that way. If you marked my words with a sharpie then they’d be all blocked out like those CIA documents when they’re shown on 60 Minutes. If that happened we would have no way of proving that I said some would eat their words of describing my lair as a mere basement of my maternal figure.

As I await the upload to the tubes of a rather large file, I ponder what sort of new information I could divulge to my team awaiting said file in regards to our recent plans for TOTAL WORLD DOMINATION! See, we start every night by reciting our theme song in German (yes, our team has a theme song, shut the fuck up, no one asked you). Everything after that is either so top secret that I would have to kill you if I told you, or its sheer awesomeness would be too much for your mortal soul to comprehend, and it would kill you anyway.

Suddenly, through the darkness I hear a sound—*krr-chsshh*—DEAR GOD! I whirl around in my office chair with lightning-fast reflexes like the ninja I am. With my deathly stare I stop the intruder dead in his tracks. It’s…HIM. There, frozen in my gaze, the nephew of my mortal enemy… Mini Angel of Death. Why yes, he is only a miniature version, but an Angel of Death nonetheless. And there, in my doorway, he holds a priceless relic… a frosty carbonated beverage, canned on the summit of Mt Dew. My LAST Dew.

Unfortunately due to my being a child prodigy in my area of expertise and having slain my master in a sparring session before my training was ever fully complete, I only lack the ability to freeze time for a few seconds, so I must act quickly. The most effective weapon against any Angel of Death is a fork… the bigger the better. However there was only one fork in the room… my giant fork, gifted to me by the Angel of Death himself, unbeknownst to him that it would someday become the symbol of his mortality.

But my giant fork is out of reach: in the window sill across the room, and if I let this tiny adversary out of my sight he will surely slip out of my grasp and return with reinforcements, plunging the ninjas and death into our inevitable war. And as far as I know the great rabbids, wielders of the plunger, are in death’s camp tonight. Those traitorous furballs, switching sides like a seesaw even in the midst of a battle. They can’t be relied on by anyone really, but when they DO fight for you, it’s worth it. Their battle cry alone instills fear in the most hardened war heros: “DAAAAAHHHH!!!!’ they screech, beating wildly with deadly pink plungers imported from France.

But no, no I can’t risk open war. I’ll have to do it the old fashioned way. My gaze pierces the Angel of Death like a thousand knives. But not like how Jack described icy water when he talked Rose out of jumping off the back of the ship in Titanic. No, this is something much less gay. Finally, a mere 1.42 seconds after I heard the opening of one of my most treasured findings in my campaign of doom, I spring from my chair, launching my body at the thief.

No use in traditional ninja practices, he’s already seen me. I do my best to mimic the cry of a rabbid. “DAAAHHH!!!” Every fiber of my being is hellbent on one thing and one thing only: getting that Mountain Dew back before he leaks the secret to the enemy. After all it is the secret to my ninja abilities… lurking in the midst of the enemy in the dead of night without the slightest hint of fatigue, deadly speed, and above all, the willingness to believe things like flying are really possible.

But alas, it appears this night prowler of death has deciphered a hint of our secrets by the simple act of holding a Dew. Something tells me it’s too late… perhaps it is how the Angel of Death vanishes as quickly as I attacked, and I ram my head into the wall behind his void. I fall to the ground, defeated. I realize there is only one way to cope with this. Sadly that requires Mountain Dew. I dawdle over to the robbed refrigerator, and merely settle for a Pepsi.

Returning to my desk, an instant message awaits me.

“Was werden wir heute abend tun, Gehirn?” they ask.
I reluctantly reply “Die gleiche Sache tun wir jede Nacht, kleinen Finger. Versuchen Sie, die Welt zu übernehmen!”